Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery (11 page)

There was a silence.

‘Of course the worst of it is, she was right.’

‘About the venereal disease?’ Polly had suddenly sat up straighter.

‘No, for God’s sake. You knew him. You know what a brilliant bloke he was. No, about the having no money. It sucked. I couldn’t get a teaching job anywhere. All there was on offer was hotel cleaning or bar work. Both of which I tried, by the way.’

She shook her head. Andy had silently come over and left another bottle with them, and Kerensa refilled their glasses. Selina was less animated now.

‘That’s why… that’s why going back to town was so awful. It was full of people who never knew him. Didn’t know how decent and kind and right he was, who only saw my off-brand fucking trainers and us fighting all the time. After he died I tried somewhere new, and that was awful too. I always ended up having two glasses of wine too many and ruining everyone else’s night out.’

‘Is that why you came back here?’

‘That,’ said Selina, heavily. ‘And because I didn’t know where else to go.’

 

 

The boys, Polly noticed, had started dancing a hornpipe, and she pretended to watch them, all the while hugging her knees to her chest, her heart going out to Selina, who had finally announced, ‘Let’s change the subject! I can’t do the miserable widow act for very long. PLEASE. I really can’t.’

And they had chatted of other things, but carefully. Dubose took on the job of trying to make Selina laugh, and was reasonably successful, and Polly chatted to Archie who had just come in, who had stopped by the table, double-took massively at Flora, then smiled, tiredly.

‘How’s she doing?’ he asked Polly quietly, a little away from the group, nodding at Selina.

‘I think… I think she’s making some progress,’ said Polly, then looked at him more closely. The lines were still deep around his eyes, and Polly remembered how close he and Tarnie had been, sailing together for so many years. A lot of people were worried about Selina, but Archie had been right there and was trying to carry on without him, and the pain showed on his face. The ripples from the sinking, Polly thought, had spread out, like a stone cast in a pond, and made their presence felt in all directions.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

Archie shrugged. ‘Nights like tonight,’ he said, looking round at half the town out under the fairy lights, drinking, talking, laughing, ‘I really miss him. And sometimes I’ll be throwing a line and I half think to look round for him, but he’s gone. And I keep thinking, am I doing it how he would have done it? Would he have been happy with me?’

‘Of course he would,’ said Polly encouragingly.

‘I hope so,’ said Archie. ‘I really, really do.’

Polly patted his hand. ‘Get more rest,’ she said. ‘The job is knackering enough on its own without you having to worry all the time about everyone else. You’re doing well. You really are. The lads are happy and the fish are coming in.’

The boys finally stopped dancing and bowed to a scattering of applause, then, out of breath and pinker than ever, Jayden came over to their table and stood in front of Flora.

‘Did you like me dancing?’ he asked.

‘You were dancing?’ said Flora, in an uninterested voice.

Polly stood up.

‘Come on, let’s go home.’

‘Flora is coming with me!’ yelled Jayden loudly to the rest of the bar, who raised their heads only briefly. Flora rolled her eyes.

‘To your mum’s,’ she said, getting up with some reluctance.

‘Do you need a spare T-shirt?’ said Polly.

‘It’s all right,’ said Jayden. ‘My mum’s got lots of nighties.’

They all looked at one another.

‘Probably,’ said Jayden. ‘Or you can borrow one of my T-shirts.’

‘As a sleeping bag,’ said Flora.

 

 

Jayden and Flora headed up the winding hill to Jayden’s mother’s tiny two-up two-down fisherman’s cottage, which clung to the hillside like a child clinging to its mother.

Polly and Kerensa walked side by side, trying not to sneak glances back at Selina and Dubose, who were very close together, slightly tipsy, behind them.

They walked past the Little Beach Street Bakery, its windows crumb-free and empty, apart from a wedding cake Polly had made for a family on the mainland, which she was displaying in the window until it was ready to go. Polly turned round to say good night to Selina.

‘I think you did a good thing coming back here,’ she said. She couldn’t bear the look of misery in Selina’s eyes. ‘Tarnie… your husband… he’s in every stone of this place. Every brick. You can talk about him all day if you like. Nobody didn’t know him, and nobody didn’t like him. This was his place, he came from here, and you can be here too.’

Selina paused for a moment.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Arriving has been a bit overwhelming. Thanks for letting me unload on you lot.’

‘No problem,’ said Polly. She watched, slightly concerned, as Dubose squeezed Selina’s hand, and leant over and kissed her hard on the cheek. But then he rejoined Polly and Kerensa.

Later, after they’d had a cup of tea back at the house, and Kerensa had gone to bed in the real, big proper bed in the annexe downstairs, Polly went up to look at the sea and text Huckle, hoping it wasn’t too late. It wasn’t too late, he explained laboriously when he phoned, rather drunk, but the mead had come out again and had made it completely impossible to form co… co… co… understandable words, but did she know that he… he… no, listen, this was important, no, don’t hang up, okay, because he loved her more than everything in the world, did she understand that? Because it was vitally important that she understood that, okay?

And Polly laughed and said she did understand, and let him talk on while she got ready for bed, until he told her once more that he loved her.

Then she gave Neil a big cuddle, and remembered her slightly worrying conversation with Patrick, but decided to put it out of her head for now, as the little Puffin fluttered about getting comfortable in his bed, made from an old tea box (she had bought him an expensive dog basket but he hated it. He liked the rustling of the cardboard. Also, when he had one of his invariable accidents, she could just throw the box out and get another one. Neil had never quite become house-trained, although he had got a lot better).

Finally, going to the window, she looked out over the little town. She could see the fairy lights at the pub being switched off, and the street lamps going out; only the beam from the lighthouse continuing to swing around in the thick of the evening; and down in the town, just where she used to sit, a low light shining and a small shape in front of the window, sleepless, alone, in the tiny flat above the Little Beach Street Bakery.

After a lazy Sunday, during which Huckle was frankly good for nothing except eating bacon sandwiches and groaning, and Dubose disappeared completely, Polly wasn’t looking forward to Monday morning. She had a strong suspicion that Malcolm was going to show up again. Unfortunately she was right.

Ironically, the shop had never looked better. It was a beautiful day. The cobbles seemed freshly scrubbed under a clear blue sky. The pale grey frontage was fresh and clean; the windows, thanks to Jayden’s hard work, shone. Regardless of what other problems she might have, thought Polly, it was just a wonderful morning to be alive. The warm scent of the first batch of newly baked bread was already rising on the air. Hopping down the steps from the lighthouse (Neil, who had wanted to leave with her, was tucked under Huckle’s sleeping arm), carrying two extra trays of proved dough to make cinnamon rolls, she was in an exceptionally good mood.

‘Hey, Jayden,’ she sang out as she came through the door. ‘Nice job.’

Jayden looked up from where he was scrubbing out a drawer, pink as ever.

‘Well?’ said Polly, washing her hands and rolling out the cinnamon dough with the butter cinnamon mix, then expertly rolling them up again into spirals and chopping them into neat slices.

‘Well what?’ said Jayden gruffly.

‘How did it go with Flora?’

Jayden stopped and sighed.

‘She looks like an angel,’ he said, his eyes dazed. ‘She looks like a star. I can’t even look at her, she’s so beautiful.’

‘But did you talk to her?’

Jayden shook his head.

‘How could I talk to her? It’s like she’s off of a film or something. She’s too beautiful. I couldn’t say anything to her at all.’ He sighed. ‘I can only worship her till the end of my days.’

‘I don’t think she’ll like that,’ said Polly. ‘Can’t you talk to her about baking, or something else she likes?’

Jayden looked taken aback.

‘But she’s so beautiful!’ he said.

‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘I’m starting to see Flora’s problem.’

‘She doesn’t have any problems,’ said Jayden. ‘She’s perfect.’

 

 

Malcolm stumbled in at about ten o’clock. He did not look well. His peaky face was grey and lumpy and his hair was dirty. He was wearing the same rumpled trousers as he had the week before, but they looked even more wrinkled and stained, and he smelled a little stale.

‘Hello, Malcolm,’ said Polly brightly. ‘We’re bird-free today, as I hope you can see. Cinnamon roll?’

If he could resist her cinammon rolls, Polly thought, then he was a stronger man than she gave him credit for. The lightly melting sweet buttery inside; the soft, yielding doughy exterior…

He polished it off in two bites.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘You can get ’em from the services in packs of three.’

He put out a paw to reach for another one. Polly resisted the urge to slap him down.

‘So, did you have a good weekend?’

She passed him a coffee with three sugars, which he gulped down.

‘Heavy one,’ said Malcolm, sounding pleased with himself. ‘Down the Sugar House. Out with the lads. Bit of footie, few pints, nightclub. There were some right slags in there, though, know what I mean?’

This was directed at Jayden, who looked confused. Polly knew his mother would have boxed his ears if that word had even crossed his brain.

‘Yeah, they all think they’re just so great in their little short skirts.’

He took another slurp of his coffee and shook his head.

‘Little…’

He seemed to recollect where he was and didn’t finish the sentence, smiling instead, showing grey teeth.

‘So, yeah, great weekend, yeah.’

He sniffed.

‘Right, I’ve been poring over these figures, right? Okay? So I think I’ve got us a plan together.’

Polly wiped her hands, washed them again, then she and Jayden started pounding out the lunchtime bread together.

‘See,’ said Malcolm, ‘you doing this. It’s inefficient, is what it is. You making all this bread every day.’

‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘If I wanted it to be efficient, I’d probably just go and work in a factory or something.’

‘ZACTLY,’ said Malcolm, looking pleased. ‘Doesn’t make any sense you doing this every day. I bet you’d rather not.’

Polly looked at him, astonished.

‘But I love doing it,’ she said.

‘Bit much like hard work, innit?’ said Malcolm.

Polly shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, yes. But it’s good work. Good, honest work that people like.’

Malcolm sniffed again.

‘That’s all very nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘Nice and everything, but cahm on. Centralised distribution, bulk discounting… that’s how things work these days. In the business world. Cost, that’s all anyone cares about. Why do you think everyone shops in Lidl?’

‘Nothing wrong with Lidl,’ said Jayden.

‘Zactly.’

‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong with Lidl,’ said Polly, exasperated. ‘But there’s more than one way of doing things. There’s no reason you can’t get some things cheaply and pay a bit more for other, special things. It’s the difference between a plastic bag and a Hermès bag.’

Polly had never seen a Hermès bag in her entire life, but she’d read about them in the kind of magazines she pretended fervently to Huckle she didn’t really enjoy.

‘Both work, but you don’t necessarily want them to do the same thing.’

‘Yeah,’ said Malcolm. ‘You pick the one that makes financial sense.’

Polly’s mobile rang. This was unusual, partly because coverage here was patchy at the best of times, partly because her mother was terrified of mobiles and never phoned them in case they were accidentally one thousand pounds a call. Polly kept in touch with her old friends via Facebook, and everybody else she knew would just drop in to see her; it was never a mystery where she was going to be.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, heading out the back to take the call.

 

 

‘Hello?’

The voice on the other end of the line was posh, sharp and quick.

‘Hi? Is that Polly Waterford?’

‘Yes, um, hi,’ said Polly, helplessly watching through the door as Malcolm ate another cinnamon roll, then another. Those things retailed at £1.50; he was chomping through the day’s profits at the speed of light.

‘I’m Kate Lacey. I write for the
Bugle on Sunday
, but I’m based down in this neck of the woods. We’re doing a pullout for our food section entitled “Best Artisan Food Shops in the West Country”, and your name came up.’

‘Really!’ said Polly, totally delighted and thrilled. ‘Who from?’

‘All sorts of people,’ said Kate, sounding amused. ‘We set up an Internet forum and your name kept appearing.’

Polly couldn’t help the massive beam spreading across her face.

‘Well that’s… that’s lovely news.’

‘So we’re going to come down, maybe take a couple of photographs, would that be okay? We’re going to make it kind of a lifestyle piece.’

Polly bit her lip and immediately wondered if there was a way to get Neil in the pictures.

‘Of course.’

‘Lovely, how about the first Tuesday in June? It’ll go in our big summer issue. Maybe a Saturday, get a bit of a bustle, local colour.’

‘Perfect,’ said Polly.

‘Okay then, give me your email and we’ll be in touch.’

 

 

Polly came back into the shop absolutely beaming, as Jayden served a line of customers. Thankfully they seemed to be buying all the cinnamon rolls, thus getting them out of Malcolm’s line of sight.

‘A newspaper is coming to do a feature on us!’ she said. ‘A proper big Sunday newspaper! With pictures and everything! As one of the West Country’s best artisan shops.’

Malcolm looked unimpressed.

‘A
newspaper
?’ he said. ‘Who reads sodding newspapers?’

‘Lots of people,’ said Polly.

‘Neh,’ said Malcolm. ‘Everyone gets their news on their phone these days. Look at this.’

He showed her his news feed. It was almost exclusively stories about Formula 1.

‘Who actually goes out and buys a boring old newspaper?’

‘I do,’ said Polly.

‘This won’t be something lots of people read, though, will it?’ said Malcolm. ‘It’ll be some posh nonsense for five idiots in London. It’ll be no use to us at all.’

‘But we can put it in the window,’ said Polly. ‘And people will see it and come down and visit…’

She lost herself in a reverie of foodies from far and wide exclaiming over her olive loaf, begging for the secrets of her cultivated yeast. Poilâne, she knew, the famous Parisian bakery, had people who sent their private jets for loaves. Obviously that wouldn’t happen to her. But how incredibly exciting to be in the paper.

‘I think it will be amazing for us,’ she said, undaunted. ‘It will be… um, won’t it be like really good marketing? Marketing is very important, isn’t it?’

Malcolm snorted. ‘Yeah, fine. They can come and take all the pictures they like. Maybe you could glam up a bit, actually? Wouldn’t hurt to put a bit of lippy on, would it, darling, when they come to take the shots? Maybe a short skirt.’

Polly furrowed her brow.

‘I haven’t got any short skirts.’

‘No,’ said Malcolm pensively, giving her a quick up and down. ‘Well maybe that’s for the best.’

Polly served another customer wordlessly, clenching her nails into her palms.

‘So anyway, that’s settled,’ said Malcolm, dumping a large pile of slightly stained paperwork on her desk.

‘What’s settled?’ said Polly, pinging the till and turning round.

‘From next Monday,’ said Malcolm, ‘everything will get delivered centrally. One delivery a week. From a factory, like you said. You sell that, put some lippy on, we’ll have this place making money in no time. I’ll just take a couple more of those roll things on my way out.’